


raccoon

by graceyard (gracelesso)



Series: marvel cemetery universe [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracelesso/pseuds/graceyard
Summary: note: this is an unfinished draft“Christ, Buck, what happened to your face?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: marvel cemetery universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930750
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	raccoon

**Author's Note:**

> i'm clearing out my drafts, which means throwing all the stubs of ideas that will never be finished out into the world so that i may be free of them. 
> 
> i spat out this many words in about ten minutes, then forgot about it for (according to gdocs) twenty months.

“Bucky!” 

Damn it, he'd hoped Steve had gone to bed by now.

“Hey.”

“Christ, Buck, what happened to your face?”

Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it. He'd hoped it would have started to heal by now, too. It's not like it hurts anymore. 

“Got jumped on the way home,” he says, beginning the torturous process of tackling all the straps on his jacket. “'M fine, Steve. Doesn't even hurt anymore.”

Steve doesn't look reassured.

“There's a lot of blood, Buck. Want me to take -”

“I said I'm fine!” It's harsh, but he doesn't want Steve getting any closer. Steve gets closer.

“Are those --- claw marks?”

Bucky doesn't say anything, just keeps unbuckling himself like the world's most sullen striptease.

“If there's animals out there that can do that kind of damage to you, we should let the others know, Buck.”

Steve reaches for his phone, and Bucky realises how much worse this will get if he has to confess not only to Steve, but to, god. Sam. Natasha. The UN Security Council.  _ Tony. _

“No!” he yelps, flinging a (folded) switchblade so that it knocks the phone from Steve's hand with pinpoint accuracy. Steve, understandably, starts. The look he turns on Bucky is  _ horrible. _ It's concern, and kindness, and patience, and none of the shock and alarm that ought to be showing when your traumatised life partner comes home covered in blood and then throws a knife at you. 

“Bucky, please,” says Steve, calm like he's talking to -- like he's talking to a startled animal, thinks Bucky, and a laugh barks out of him. Steve does flinch at that, but slams the gentling expression right back on. “What’s going on?”

Bucky pauses in his tussle with a particularly convoluted holster and looks Steve dead in the eye. “Really Steve, it's nothing. Can we - can we just go to bed? Please? We can talk in the morning.”

Steve's aggressive soothing face morphs into something more natural, something bewildered. Good. At least that means he doesn't think Bucky's having one of his episodes anymore. 

“Lot of blood for 'nothing’, Buck,” he says, caught in a cleft between belligerence and resignation. “Let me at least clean your face up?” 

Can't hurt, Bucky thinks, and nods. Steve trudges off to the bathroom, where they keep the first aid kit. Bucky doesn't follow.  ****  
  


A few minutes later, as he finally jettisons the last of his gear - well, other than the tiny throwing knife he keeps on him even in the shower, and the goddamned arm - and drops down onto the sofa, Steve sticks his head back into the living room.

“You want me to fix it up out here, Buck?” Bucky groans, but hauls himself back up and plods to the bathroom.

“Oh.” When he sees himself in the mirror, he understands why Steve had reacted like that. There really is a lot of blood. And three big scratches running livid red from his hairline down over one eyelid. He looks like some kind of B-movie bad guy. “That does look pretty bad.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, next to him. “You sure you're okay?”

Bucky tries to smile reassuringly, meeting Steve's eyes in the reflection. It doesn't have the desired effect, what with all the drying blood. He sighs. “Really, Steve. Healing up nicely, look.” 

“At least let me clean you up?” Bucky could just wash his face. There's nothing to be gained by dabbing at it gently, no need for antiseptic, no use for a second pair of hands. But Steve's looking at him with soft eyes and he thinks yeah, I'll let myself have this. 

“Shirt off, then” says Steve, turning on the faucet. “Need to soak it, no point getting more blood on it.”

Bucky snorts, because the shirt's black, they're all black, it doesn't matter if the blood leaves a mark or not, but pulls it over his head anyway. He gasps when the collar grazes his forehead, biting against the fresh cuts. Steve's big hands are there immediately, disentangling him with care and discarding the shirt in the bathtub.

The sink is full of warm water, and the first aid kit, such as it is, is opened on the side. There's barely anything in it - a handful of dressings, some gauze, a roll of tape. Steve rips the paper from a dressing pad and dips it in the water. It's gentle against Bucky's face, sweeping the blood from his forehead. He shuts his eyes as a rivulet of water trickles down the bridge of his nose, tips his head back.

Steve works methodically, his left hand on Bucky's jaw. 


End file.
